


Book One: Control

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Crushing the Doom Falcons [2]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Chaos, Chaos Headcanon, Chaos Sorcerer - Freeform, Chaos Space Marines - Freeform, Corruption, Cult of Khorne, Cult of Slaanesh, Denial, Destiny, Explicit Language, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insanity, Invasion, Language Barrier, One-Sided Attraction, Original Chaos Warband, Other, Rage, Recruitment, Screw Destiny, Slow Build, Space Marines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9530306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: The beginning of the Apostles of Death warband's campaign against the Doom Falcons, a space marine chapter who must also deal with a necron incursion. Rogue Chaos Sorcerer Yashtiri searches for a way to leave the planet with his stolen technology; Sergeant Artyom Tokarev prepares to lead his squad against the Chaos invasion; Initiate Vergerus struggles to learn the language of Chaos while drifting between accepting and rejecting his future as a mindless Khorne Berzerker.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the Chaos characters have been written long before now, so it feels good to write a bit more about their origins. The rating may change with the tags as the work progresses.

“I HEARD WE’RE GOING TO FIGHT SOON!” Grozm screamed around a mouthful of human spleen.

Vergerus flinched away at the painful volume.

“From who?”

“A SLAVE! IT WAS TALKING TO ANOTHER SLAVE IN THE HALL! I HEARD ABOUT HOW WE’RE JUMPING INTO REALSPACE SOON, AND THEN I KILLED THEM!”

Vergerus shook his head slightly in annoyance.

“And I assume we’re eating them now…”

Mercifully, Grozm nodded instead of vocally affirming this statement, likely due to the fact that he’d stuffed an entire heart into his maw. Blood dribbled down his chin as he struggled to chew with his metal fangs.

“About damn time, though,” Vergerus muttered as he effortlessly ripped the liver out of the corpse. “I feel as though we’ve been in transit for centuries. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to warp travel without spending it in meditation.”

“YOU WILL!” Grozm assured him, his expression positive behind the gluttony. “BESIDES, IT CAN’T BE WORSE BEING WITH US THAN THOSE IDIOT LOYALISTS!”

Vergerus just shrugged. He was a new convert, only a few weeks past being an Ultramarines scout. But now he was an initiate bound to the will of Khorne whether he liked it or not (which he didn’t). Until recently he’d been licking his wounds, and while recovering had formed an unexpectedly strong bond with two other Chaos marines. The first, of course, was Grozm, who was now indisputably his brother-in-arms. Grozm was an idiot, but his simplistic optimism perfectly balanced Vergerus’ angry cynicism. He also found it amusing how cluelessly joyful Grozm felt in any given situation.

The other was an initiate named Luskar.

If he was honest with himself, Vergerus didn’t quite know how he felt about the other recruit, who was predestined to become a Noise havoc. If he was to be believed, Luskar was the one who’d carried him personally onto the _Flames of Damnation_ and stopped several Khorne Berzerkers from eating him, but Vergerus couldn’t be sure of this because he’d been unconscious or delirious for his first few days in captivity. He had a suspicion, though, that this story was a fallacy, mostly because it was painfully obvious how attractive Luskar found him.

“DON’T THINK SO MUCH!” Grozm yelled suddenly, making him start. “YOU’LL GET HEADACHES!”

Vergerus grimaced at this remark, not knowing if he should laugh or be annoyed for a moment before settling on the latter of the two. He screwed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, smearing blood over his skin from his armoured gauntlet.

“Should I experience a headache, brother, it’s likely due to your volume,” he growled before returning to his meal.

Grozm looked confused by this remark for a moment before completely forgetting it and beaming widely.

“IF THESE SLAVES WERE RIGHT BEFORE I KILLED THEM, IT WILL BE OUR FIRST COMBAT ASSIGNMENT TOGETHER! WE’LL KILL TWICE AS MUCH!”

Vergerus didn’t reply to this obvious statement, but rather wolfed down the rest of the liver and chased it with a mug of hot blood. Around him were Khornate havocs and a small handful of other candidates scattered about, all hissing and grunting to each other in the Blood God’s snarling language while they ate off rusted iron tables. Most of their victims were tossed onto the floor uneaten, which were scavenged by slaves, because the members of this cult only consumed blood and the organs that made it - major arteries, hearts, spleens, livers. Some even sucked marrow out of the long bones, but this was a lot of work and Vergerus saw it as a waste of his energy for such little reward.

Now that he’d completed his meal, Vergerus stood up and left the massive chamber, paying no mind to the fact that Grozm was still gorging. His comrade was already encouraging him to learn the angry-sounding lexicon of the Khornate cult, but on this particular evening he didn’t feel up to it. All it ever amounted to was him fruitlessly sitting in a group of warriors while they stared and talked around him. It was widely known that he’d been a scout for the Ultramarines chapter, and that he was a very recent convert. They despised him for it.

Somehow, though, the consensus among the higher-ups of this warband was that he was doomed to become one of them eventually. He’d always had anger management problems, even as a small child, but somehow this fact had been overlooked when he’d undergone the trials to become a neophyte. Now the Imperium would ultimately suffer for that error, even if it was only in some small way. Eventually he’d be painted red, with a chainbladed weapon in each fist.

But Vergerus couldn’t help the fact that he hated it.

Some small part of himself, he supposed, was disappointed that he’d proven so impotent against the taint of the warp. Logically, he knew it was because the time he’d spent injured had given him continued exposure to it with no means of defense. But it made him angry, as everything made him angry. He detested himself for such weakness, for the fact that he was condemned to this existence of slurping blood out of a stein and grumbling instead of using civilized words. He loathed that he’d watched the only other surviving scout, Proteus Thane, die before his feet and turn him finally to Chaos.

He could hear a being in power armour approaching from another direction of the junction ahead, obviously not trying to be stealthy. Intuition told him who it was before he even saw them.

“If the inhabitants of this deck catch you here, they’ll flense your skin from your bones,” Vergerus warned, not breaking his stride or even sparing a glance as Luskar began walking at his left. “And I may even let them.”

“Well, it’s certainly an improvement,” the Slaaneshi initiate purred with a soft smile on his sickeningly handsome face. “A week ago, you would have helped them.”

“Why are you here, Noise Marine?”

“Despite your cult affiliation, I can assume enough of your brain remains that you could work out the answer to that without too much trouble.”

Vergerus hissed: “I refuse to speculate on your deviousness. Explain yourself now or perish.”

Luskar chuckled at this, which only irritated him further.

“I can assure you, my intentions are friendly. Knowing your disgust for the path that has been chosen for you, I wish to offer you a means of resisting it.”

“You follow the god of hedonism and gluttony, so I can only assume whatever you’re extending is something disgusting.”

“Of course not, I’m not stupid. There would be no point in trying to introduce you to such depravity. I would only share a basic physical cleansing with you, in the spirit of camaraderie.”

Vergerus considered this for a moment. Luskar was obnoxious, but for now he seemed harmless enough. Besides, removing the grime from his skin might help him feel somewhat better now that he thought about it.

“Alright,” he begrudgingly agreed. “But if you-”

“Yes, yes, assume I’ve already heard whatever litany of death threats you’ve prepared,” Luskar interrupted. “I’ve met enough Khornates in my life to already be familiar with them all by this point. Still, I’m pleased that you’ve accepted my proposition.”

They were silent after that while Luskar led Vergerus up several decks to where the Cult of Slaanesh made its home. The vast difference in atmosphere was shocking to Vergerus: instead of old blood spattered across the floor and beaten slaves cowering away from his presence, these corridors were impeccably tidy and the human slaves were perfectly dressed in clean robes. In fact the only markings of slavery they bore were the stereotypical shock collars around their necks. The Chaos marines walked free of their armour and weapons, in only stiff black combat boots and pink or purple fatigues and habits. Most of them were as nauseatingly beautiful as Luskar, groomed to some ridiculous and immaculate standard to rival even loyalist Astartes. The perfection of this place made Vergerus ill.

“Relax,” Luskar murmured in a tone that was obviously meant to sound soothing. In reality it only further grated his nerves. “Most of them don’t know who you are.”

“I don’t care,” Vergerus snapped. “The very _idea_ behind all of this is hideous.”

“Just relax,” the Slaaneshi initiate repeated before leading him through a doorway on the right.

It opened into a large chamber lined with intricately patterned ceramic tiles. Several slaves were attending to some Noise Marines who were present, while more bustled about between armour and weapon racks. Luskar immediately shed his wargear onto one such set, which was promptly seen to by a pair of slaves. Vergerus felt his entire body tensing up, but grudgingly mimicked this action and slid free of his battered body-sleeve. The temperature was suitably warm and comfortable, which he was surprised by, and even more amazingly it actually helped him loosen himself slightly. Luskar motioned for him to sit.

“This isn’t… what I was expecting,” Vergerus admitted.

“How did you do it when you were with the loyalists?”

“Well… the same way mortals usually go about cleaning themselves. It was a normal shower, just taller.”

Their faces were shaved and their hair was trimmed first before oil was spread across their skin. Once they were covered in it, the slaves began expertly scraping it off with straight razors, taking all the grime and body hair with it. Vergerus chose not to look at himself as they tended over him; he didn’t want to see the now-healed burn where he’d once had the inverted omega of the Ultramarines tattooed on his left pectoral. Instead, he glanced back to his wargear and noticed them making off with his body sleeve.

“They’re just cleaning it,” Luskar explained before he could even ask. “And they’ll stitch the tears in the fabric. There wouldn’t be much sense in cleansing yourself just to go back to dirty clothes and armour, now would there?”

Vergerus snorted but didn’t say anything. This experience wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be, and it did feel good to have fresh skin again. He leaned back against the wall and watched the slaves polishing his bare armour, restoring the dull gleam to the unpainted ceramite. One was also oiling and sharpening his jagged combat blade.

“I expected this to be more… well, I expected something _else,_ ” Vergerus confessed, meeting Luskar’s silver eyes.

“Of course you did. But recall that each cult is a duality. Khorne is lord over butchers and slaughterers as much as the honourable fighters. Slaanesh is god for those of us who are depraved and will degrade ourselves, but we also indulge in the comfort and pleasures of perfection. For me, perfection is as we already are. We are young Chaos marines, with fit bodies that are as yet unmarred by the marks of combat. But in our youthful inexperience there is also a certain honesty. Especially with you, I think. You’re very honest.”

Vergerus barked a rough laugh.

“Your optimism would be better placed with Grozm. If I were honest, I would still be a loyalist.”

“Grozm,” Luskar chuckled. “I don’t understand how you tolerate his insufferable stupidity. A man of your intellect would be better served finding more intelligent allies.”

“I feel safe presuming the one you have in mind is yourself,” Vergerus remarked dryly. “Despite the fact that I see no useful qualities to rewarding your friendliness.”

“I already told you. The simple fact that you’re not trying to rip my guts out is itself an act of defiance against your predestined outcome. You may not be able to pull away from it entirely, but I can at least help you stall it for a while.”

“Why?” Vergerus asked after a moment, feeling suspicious.

“The experience, of course. No warrior in my cult, as far as I’m aware, has ever dared suffer the presence of a Berzerker in his company. For me, it isn’t a suffering, but a curiosity.”

Vergerus wasn’t sure he believed Luskar, but decided not to press the issue further because he knew he’d never get a straight answer. Instead he just watched the slave filing rust off his combat knife in silence, trying to remember his friends who’d been killed several weeks ago. Proteus Thane, Aleron Diodus, Cepheus Quinlan, Nero Octavius. Aleron had been his best friend, and had died saving him by shoving him away from an incoming plasma shot. Vergerus didn’t think he’d ever forget Aleron’s death, seeing the other man’s face melted off his skull.

 

As it turned out, Grozm’s prediction two days prior had not been wrong - shortly after Vergerus had been woken for training that morning, Khorase’vod had been approached by a slave with a message and immediately dismissed them to the briefing chamber. There were over a hundred initiates, which Vergerus would later learn was about the standard size for such a group of recruits, but out of all of them he was the only former loyalist. He was older than most of them because of this, since he’d already undergone his various surgeries when he’d been stolen from the Ultramarines, and at the present time was thirty-six standard years. The vast majority of the others were between twelve and nineteen, except for three or four who’d been denied graduation as a punishment and were Vergerus’ age.

It only served to make him feel more isolated. They stood away from him, avoiding him altogether if they were able to, and his only real friend in the warband was Grozm, who had already been a havoc for four decades and only met with him at meals. Vergerus was still intrigued at the fact that friendship could even exist in a Chaos warband at all.

Not that he particularly wanted camaraderie from the other initiates. They were below his level of intelligence and often acted impulsively, not to mention their inferior combat skills. It simply annoyed him that he was so widely hated for something beyond his control. The only one who didn’t mind was Luskar, and Vergerus still hadn’t determined if the Slaaneshi marine was working on some ulterior motive.

The first tier members of the warband were forced to line up and stand to attention, while those who had graduated and beyond were allowed to simply congregate into their respective subdivisions. This was another aspect Vergerus had never thought was part of Chaos: all the rules. He knew that in smaller warbands it started and ended with the leader’s word being law, but the Apostles of Death were a highly organized and effective fighting force. Somewhere along the line they’d become almost as streamlined and categorized as loyalist Astartes, and aside from the fact that they worshiped the daemons of the warp it could be very hard to tell the difference at times. This fact fascinated Vergerus and also terrified the small part of him that still clung to the Emperor.

A massive brute of a Chaos marine stepped out in front of the gathered warriors, and immediately everyone in the chamber fell silent. He wore matte black Mk. III armour with bright red trim that bristled with spines and thorns carved from bones, and his boots and gauntlets sported large claws of jagged obsidian. Even by Astartes standards he was enormous, nearly as large as a marine in Terminator armour might be, and the twin power swords mag-locked to his belt appeared unnecessary - he seemed able to kill any adversary with a mere look. Eyes like black pits burned inside a pale face, and silver tattoos of daemonic sigils and passages in some ancient language marked his bald flesh.

Vergerus had never seen this Chaos Marine until now, and had only heard the name whispered among the others in fear and reverence, but instantly knew that this was the Chaos Lord Kserdiek-Algr’ok.

Kserdiek issued a single word, and though it was in the mashed tongue of Chaos Undivided that Vergerus still didn’t know, he understood its meaning perfectly: _“Bow.”_

And they did. In a single motion, voluntarily or not, every man present bent to one knee and hung his head. For the first time since he’d become a Space Marine, Vergerus felt a jolt of pure fear course his spine, but it faded as quickly as it appeared and was instantly replaced with awe. Before him was the embodiment of strength and leadership, and he could do nothing else but avert his eyes, knowing he was not yet worthy to look upon his new commander.

It seemed to last more than a lifetime, but in reality only a few seconds passed before he found himself looking back up and returning to his feet with the others. Kserdiek stood immobile as a stone idol, observing them, while a Word Bearer in full battle plate of crimson and silver came forward and addressed them.

“Friends, allies, minions, as you may have heard from rumours and certain disobedient slaves, tomorrow we shall embark upon a new campaign. Our intelligence sources and readings of the warp patterns have drawn us to Segmentum Ultima of Imperial territory several weeks ago, and now you are permitted to know the reason why. An Astartes world, Doma, has caught our attention. A rogue sorcerer has arrived here, seeking ancient artifacts of untold power. We know not his name, nor his intentions, but soon this information shall be within our grasp. This will be an excellent opportunity for us. Young warriors may become blooded, others may prove themselves worthy of positive attention. Our veterans may add to their impressive tallies. And all of us shall be granted the chance to bathe in fresh blood as we assail the lackeys of the Corpse God. For the past several decades, we have traversed the warp while awaiting our next major conflict, and tonight we are on the cusp of glorious violence in the name of the Dark Gods. So while we have traveled divided, let us begin this campaign as one.”

When the Word Bearer had finished speaking, scores of slaves dragged forth chairs and long tables into the chamber and the groups of Chaos Marines more or less broke up into smaller clusters. Most still kept to themselves, though there was rare mingling with some Plague Marines and Berzerkers. As soon as the formation was allowed to disperse, Luskar appeared at his side.

“I heard about these as a child,” the other initiate murmured, half to himself. “This will be my first.” When Vergerus didn’t reply, Luskar continued. “Every five decades or so, the warband draws back together for a large campaign. My family has been in the Slaanesh cult of this warband for decades, as breeding stock. The males like me are grown into warriors, while females are used to breed the next generation. I have several relatives in my cult, including Andrios Mil.”

“Who?” Vergerus snorted.

“Our champion. He… fathers quite a few of his own recruits. Including me.”

“You’re proud of the fact that your cult champion raped your mother?” Vergerus sneered. “I know who both of my brothers are and my parents chose to have all three of us.”

“You were also born on a loyalist world. I was born on this ship,” Luskar pointed out. “Besides, warriors breed warriors. What did your father do?”

“He manufactures engine parts for military vehicles used by the Imperial Guard and by the Ultramarines.”

“Well… alright, then that’s not an especially good example. Many Khorne Berzerkers in the warband are the children of slaves who attempted to rebel.”

“My parents were religious and loyal, and were proud to have their oldest son chosen for the greatest Astartes Chapter in the Imperium,” Vergerus bragged. “But _you_ are a product of sexual assault and your mother probably didn’t even _want_ you. Yet somehow, as I said, you’re proud of this.”

Luskar’s silver eyes flicked down to his boots, and though it was only for an instant, it was enough to show that Vergerus’ goading had reached him. Still, the future Noise Marine recovered instantly.

“Perhaps that shows you why you’re such an interesting subject for me, then. You’re obviously well-bred. Which planet are you from in Ultramar?”

“Macragge,” Vergerus answered dismissively, inviting no further inquiry. “Mamillian and Korvus even wrote me and said they were both joining the PDF and hoped to be in the Guard afterwards.”

“Your brothers?” Luskar guessed. “Of course, you know they would kill you now you’ve embraced Chaos. You’ll need a new family.”

Vergerus growled: “I have Grozm. He is my brother now.”

“You will accept that slavering fool, but not me?” Luskar feigned insult. “Clearly you’ve chosen the right cult if you see fit to abandon your intelligence so readily and make such poor allies.”

“Your lifestyle disgusts me,” Vergerus answered bluntly. “And for all Grozm’s faults and undeniable lack of higher thought processes, at least I know where he stands. You, on the other hand, are an accident waiting to happen. Besides, you’ve done nothing as yet to show me any reason I should trust you.”

“Even if I did everything in my power to prove myself to you, would you ever believe me?” Luskar smiled.

“Unlikely,” he admitted, scowling. “Although this still begs the question, and I want the _real_ reason this time, as to why you’re hounding after me in the first place.”

As they spoke, a table was dragged before them by a group of slaves and they were able to sit while bowls and utensils were set at their places, as well as crystal goblets.

“I said a few days ago-”

“And you lied to my face,” the Khornate initiate spat, boring his dark brown eyes into the other man’s carefully blank expression.

Before Luskar could answer, he was suddenly grabbed by a pair of blood red gauntlets and thrown from his chair. Grozm plunked down in the now vacant spot.

“HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS ANNOYING YOU!” the havoc screamed, his black eyes happy and stupid.

“He was,” Vergerus agreed, suppressing a laugh. “My thanks, brother.”

“HE’S ALWAYS LOOKING AT YOU FUNNY! WE SHOULD KILL HIM!”

“Yes. But later,” Vergerus added, almost as an afterthought. “I must admit, I’m quite curious about what he’s up to.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sergeant Artyom Tokarev made a final check of his plasma pistol before mag-locking it to his hip and reaching his left hand into his red power fist. The chapter serf had finished polishing his helmet and offered it, struggling against the weight of the armour piece, though for Tokarev it was unnoticable. As he slipped it on he felt his neatly cut hair flatten against the inner padding and the orange HUD flicked to life across his retinas.

“You may go,” he nodded, dismissing the serf.

Exiting his quarters as well, Tokarev paced to the end of the corridor to check his squad’s barracks. All nine warriors were in the final stages of preparation as well, their chromatic green power armour gleaming and weapons secured to their bodies. As soon as they saw him, they stood to attention and saluted by making the sign of the Aquila against their breastplates.

“Brother sergeant, 2nd Squad is armed and ready,” Marko Lukashuk reported.

An experienced battle brother, Lukashuk was seasoned and well-rounded, and though he wasn’t the most senior marine in the squad Tokarev was grooming him to become a sergeant as well.

“Excellent,” Tokarev nodded. “We will be in combat squad formation for this mission. Ignatenko, Shulgov, Turchakov, Panasevich, you’ll be with me. Volchok, Pravik, Zharkov, Vsevolodsky, you’ll be with Lukashuk. This is a standard cleansing mission, and 9th Squad will be on standby as backup. What are your questions?”

“Brother sergeant,” Bogdan Vsevolodsky, the newest member of the squad, spoke up, “how is it we were able to detect this genestealer infestation at such an early stage?”

“Because it’s our job,” Tokarev answered matter-of-factly. He forgave this novice question because Vsevolodsky had only recently earned a place in a tactical squad and was still quite young. “Our chapter exists to destroy the threat of Tyranid incursions, brother. Many other chapters are like ours in that they were created to oppose specific threats or a set of specific threats. For us, the Doom Falcons were created to crush the xenos spat forth from the Immaterium. Our librarians work closely with the Ordo Xenos to track potential incursions.”

Vsevolodsky grimaced at this. The Doom Falcons didn’t have an especially high level of trust for the Inquisition or their librarians, despite both being a necessary evil.

“What stage is this incursion presently at, brother sergeant?” Shulgov queried.

“Chief Librarian Svenkov believes that the genestealers have only reached their second generation of mutations, so the cult should not be especially large when we encounter them. We know their location and we’re far better armed than they will be, so this should move as though it’s going across butter and then we can focus on bigger and more interesting tasks.”

So briefed, the ten marines left the barracks and made for the embarkation deck to meet Chief Apothecary Volontsev. The Doom Falcons required an aspiring chaplain to serve as an apothecary for an extended period of time first, and as a result had almost an apothecary for every squad. Adim Volontsev would begin his apprenticeship and spiritual training in less than two standard years, and Tokarev had an immense respect for him. Before they descended the lift to the embarkation deck, however, Tokarev’s vox clicked beside his left ear and the channel opened to Captain Lukov’s voice.

“Sergeant, your previous assignment has been cancelled. Report for a tactical briefing with your squad immediately.”

“Yes, brother captain,” Tokarev replied automatically, feeling confused.

As soon as the channel closed he relayed the message to his subordinates and they immediately marched back for the tactical briefing. When they arrived, Tokarev was surprised to find that the entire company was present and a hololithic of Chief Librarian Svenkov’s face.

“We’re present and accounted for, brother librarian,” Captain Lukov announced as Tokarev’s squad stood to attention.

“Brother captain, I have grave news. My conclave has detected a significant warp disturbance converging on our system, and at it’s current bearing it obviously has every intention of invading our homeworld. So far we’ve been unable to penetrate the psychic shrouding, but our best estimate is a sizeable force of traitor Marines.”

Their discipline didn’t allow them to show it, but even without being a psyker Tokarev knew a ripple of unease passed through the assembled Doom Falcons at these words. They’d successfully fended off a Tyranid splinter fleet that had been headed for their region of space before with the help of the Ultramarines, but Tyranids were a familiar enemy that they specialized in defeating. Chaos was an entirely different matter that they had less experience with.

“All companies have been recalled by order of Chapter Master Degtyarov, but the only one close enough to reach Doma before the enemy arrives is yours. You must make haste and set up a defense of the key strategic assets. The planetary defense force has been mobilized and three regiments of Imperial Guard are en route, but by the time they arrive the invasion will likely be at it’s peak. We’ve also reached out to the Ultramarines for assistance, but our brothers are currently engaged in other matters. All speed, 2nd Company. Our homeworld’s survival rests with you as of this moment.”

The transmission abruptly cut and Captain Lukov turned to face them, his expression grim.

“Brothers, a hard defense faces us. Especially as we’ve received new blood in our ranks, some of you may not have fought Chaos yet. But it is nothing we’ve not defeated before. Our chapter has driven off and destroyed many threats before, and this will be no exception. Trust in your weapons, have faith in your brothers, and believe in your training. That is all we need to see this through, and by the Emperor’s grace our brothers will reach us in time to force the arch-traitors from our sector. For the Emperor, brothers.”

 

Yashtiri mentally cringed as his sixth sense detected a massive vessel emerge from hiding and birth into realspace. He instantly knew it wasn’t Bolastepo’s obliterator cult coming to save him, but rival Chaos Marines looking to kill him so they could use the stolen technology themselves. To make matters worse, Yashtiri didn’t know how much longer he could hide himself from the necrons who were hunting him under the planet’s surface. For now, they were still blocked inside their tomb, but they would find him eventually if the enemy Chaos forces or the loyalist residents didn’t first.

He was still hidden within the sphere he’d conjured under the earth, floating fetus-like within his blue and gold armour. He could feel the loyalist world singing on his nerves, the thrum of Imperial citizens going about their lives and the cold stirring of the ancient necrons searching for Yashtiri’s means of escape. But a third presence also spoke to him - their PDF was mobilizing. He was too far away to read their thoughts, even collectively, but their massed aura was electric blue with fear; they must have discovered the emerging Chaos assault force.

Yashtiri quickly forgot about the PDF as he sensed the necron worker scarabs making progress at clearing the exit from the tomb. They would be free within days, if not sooner, and around the same time a mass of traitor marines would be landing and wreaking havoc across the planet. He knew the loyal Astartes wouldn’t ignore such enormous threats to their homeworld, and would likely also arrive in force within the week.

And he had no means of escape.

Yashtiri knew that the warband had arrived after detecting his distress call to the Dark Mechanicus, and it was unlikely his message had ever reached Bolastepo at all. His only hope was that he could strike a bargain with whichever Chaos Lord had decided to go after him.

Stretching his consciousness, he attempted to ascertain which warband had tracked him. It was slightly more difficult now that they had emerged from the warp, but even then it wouldn’t have helped him much because he’d never heard of these so-called Apostles of Death. This put him in a difficult position - he knew nothing of this warband or their leader, and as such would have to keep hiding and biding his time. Yashtiri would be forced to simply wait and observe to see if this Chaos Lord could be bargained with. It was his only chance at survival.


	3. Chapter 3

“You, you, you, with him,” the aspiring champion grunted, dismissively pawing aside three initiates with his power claw. Looking at the Berzerker’s bare head, Vergerus didn’t know how to feel about the fact that he seemed doomed to end up totally bald with pale grey skin and black irises. “You, with them,” the aspiring champion pointed, pushing another initiate. As always, Vergerus was last in line, and the Berzerker looked disappointed on reaching him. “Ah, the loyalist. What’s your number, initiate?”

“8-15.”

“Right. Gendrach said there were plenty of candidates with Khorne’s number this round. Look, loyalist. I’m probably the only smart fighter you’ll see in this cult, and definitely the only calm one, but that doesn’t mean I won’t kick your arse back to the Horus Heresy if I don’t like what I see. They stuck you in my squad because they know that, and if you do anything stupid I’ll end you before you have the chance to regret it. Now, if you survive this battle and I’m not completely dissatisfied with you, I may allow you to use a _real_ weapon the next time I get stuck leading you by the nose.”

“Yes, sir,” Vergerus growled through clenched teeth.

The aspiring champion just shook his head disapprovingly once more before stalking off to check something with one of the brain-dead warriors in his regular squad. Vergerus couldn’t help but notice that, unlike the other squads who took on at least two, this aspiring champion had been assigned to him alone. The only reasoning he could think of for this was that the cult’s champion wanted to keep an especially close eye on him.

A door leading to one of the many corridors slammed open suddenly, and a warrior who could only have been the Khornate Champion stomped in. He had a power fist over one hand and a chainsword in the other, his ancient power armour a mix of Mk. III and Mk. IV parts with a few pieces still showing some of the original XII Legion colouring. The red and brass paint had obviously been slapped on haphazardly at least several decades ago, and by this point had been mostly worn off by incessant conflict and lack of maintenance. The Mk. IV helmet’s faceplate had been carved into the rough shape of a bear’s muzzle.

“Xader!” the champion bellowed through his helmet grille. “ _Mat’i t’k’mit’, ik’ aris mtkits’e mokavshired ak’, me mokvlas_?  _Moutans mas ak’_!”

“ _Me ar minakhavs, up’ali. Mas aklia,_ ” Xader snarled back. “ _Mas shemdeg, rats’ t’avdaskhmis ch’ven miach’niat’ mis garet’_.”

The champion just growled in response and clomped off across the deck towards a drop pod that had been scorched free of Chapter markings long ago. Xader abruptly stalked over to Vergerus and began speaking in a low voice: “That’s Kravos, your new leader. If he finds out you’re an Ultramarine he’ll eat you. This is the only time I’ll protect you from him, so consider yourself warned.”

With that, Xader shoved against the back of Vergerus’ head and pointed him in the direction of a different drop pod that was equally surface-burned. The young Chaos marine bit back a hiss of anger and obediently climbed into the pod. Seven fully-fledged Berzerkers followed after, and once their weapons were stowed and they were mag-locked into the grav harnesses Xader entered, closing the hatch behind him. He took one of the two empty slots, leaving a space between them. His jagged power claws drummed against his knee pad for a second before he slipped on his antlered helmet.

Xader’s voice came from the vox speakers inside the pod: “ _Gakhsovdet’, Kharneth saat’ebi ch’veni brdzola. Ch’ven ch’akhshobis t’avdats’vit’i dzalis da chama mat’i ghvidzli. Siskhli Siskhlis Ghmert’i_!”

“ _Siskhli Siskhlis Ghmert’i_!” the other seven screamed in response before copying the aspiring champion and donning their battle helms.

“ _Siskhli Siskhlis Ghmert’i,_ ” Vergerus whispered, so softly he could barely hear himself. How fitting that the first phrase he’d learned in the Khorne cult’s language was _Blood for the Blood God._

 

Yashtiri closed his eyes as the aether trembled around him, betraying the release of a wave of objects from the belly of the Chaos warship. The aura around each object was crimson like a flow of arterial blood, and Yashtiri could hear the thoughts as clearly as they’d been said beside his ear: _KILL! MAIM! BURN! BLOOD FOR KHORNE!_

It had begun.

 

Sergeant Tokarev and his squad barreled down the corridor of the capital’s fortress as soon as the klaxons began wailing. The vox was alive with chatter between Space Marines and PDF troopers, bracing themselves for whatever would surge forward out of the Chaos drop pods. 2nd Company had arrived only yesterday, and they’d barely had time to begin bolstering the defenses before the threat had arrived. At least they were sure it was Chaos by now, though - mainly because a swath of their extraplanetary listening posts and Imperial Navy vessels had been crushed. Before they’d been destroyed, a few garbled reports had gotten through of a corrupted battle barge and a couple of other small ships lining up to rapidly invade Doma.

Tokarev could already tell that this Chaos Lord wasn’t an idiot. He’d created a perfect blind spot in their defenses and was launching his frontal assault from there, but maintaining secrecy before his arrival had meant they could never truly prepare for the threat.

The ground batteries began thundering as ordnance and large-arms lascannons fired up at the incoming drop pods. Tokarev didn’t pause in his long stride, knowing it couldn’t nearly be enough. The batteries were built to counter orbiting vessels and transports, but Astartes drop pods had been designed specifically to rain down in such a way as to be nigh impossible to target. A handful would inevitably get taken out by sheer luck, but the bulk of the force would land unharmed.

“Brother captain, the surface batteries have begun firing at district 3,” Tokarev voxed, leaping up the stairs to survey the invasion from a turret in the wall. “Has any new intelligence arrived about what’s in those pods?”

“Negative, sergeant,” Lukov answered. “It currently appears that district four will take the brunt of the fighting. Your squad may be moved to assist them, so standby for updates.”

“Yes, brother,” Tokarev acknowledged, turning his bright red faceplate to the sun. His visor instantly darkened, but that didn’t stop him from seeing the small burning marks streaking down towards them through the atmosphere. He had been on the other side of this type of invasion countless times, but had never seen it from this perspective before. It was only now that he appreciated how effective this was as a terror tactic to demoralize the enemy - he couldn’t feel fear, but watching the Chaos Marines hurtling towards them did give him some unease.

“How are you feeling, Bodgan?” Tokarev voxed Vsevolodsky over a private link.

“A little restless, brother sergeant. I’ve never faced Chaos before.”

“Worry not, brother. Your squad mates will watch your back and I’ve fought plenty of Chaos Marines. I’m not promising an easy battle, but you’re certainly not alone. Just remember, the Emperor protects.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

The commotion as the pod slammed down was deafening, and the impact made Vergerus feel as though his teeth were rattling right out of his jaw. After a few seconds the pod finished grinding and was still. Three of the side hatches sprang open as the grav harnesses released them, but the other two remained closed. When he got to his feet and exited the pod, Vergerus saw that they’d crashed through a building. As he climbed a mound of rubble he saw several humans fleeing, but didn’t give chase - they were helpless civilians, not even remotely challenging.

If Xader gave any orders, Vergerus didn’t hear them. He didn’t have a helmet or a free vox bead inside his gorget, but as the aspiring champion would’ve issued them in his cult’s dialect it probably didn’t matter much anyway. Left to his own devices, Vergerus barely had time to think as he found himself lunging for the first PDF trooper he saw. Not even reaching for the combat blade on his belt, the young Chaos marine rammed his elbow into the human’s face, causing the head to snap back and break the neck with an audible crack. He punched a second one hard, shattering the man’s sternum through the flimsy plastek chest guard to send the trooper collapsing backwards with pained gasps. Vergerus stomped down on the soldier’s head, shattering the skull with his boot, and then turned to search out his next opponent. His eyes saw the smoking hole punch through a Berzerker’s T-shaped visor at the moment the pounding boom of a bolt pistol hit his ears - an officer, who also had a human-sized power sword.

Vergerus dove for the dead warrior’s chainsword, still growling in its master’s grip. Scooping it from the ground and spinning on the ball of his foot, the initiate swung with all his might and mercilessly cut down the officer where he stood. Wiping spatters of blood from his face with his free hand, he began jogging up the street with the other Khornates, hearing the shots from other nearby squads and the screams of their victims.

Part of him still felt guilt; these were loyal Imperial citizens, and if the architecture and comfortable-looking PDF soldiers were anything to go by they’d had content and safe lives before today. He’d been reborn in a cold Apothecarion to protect such people, and now he was on the path to destroying them wholesale. But this feeling was soon crushed under a new, stronger sensation: the hunger. It drove him into a frenzy, craving more blood and gore. It was pleasing for his barbaric instincts each time he took a life with an act of violence.

The noise of the battle was all-consuming. Drop pods were still slamming home on the surface of the planet, while chain weapons revved and bolter guns barked. It was underlain with the howls of the dying, be they planetary defense troopers or just some insolent man who was trying to protect his family. Vergerus knew none would be spared. The initiate was not so easily cowed by this thought as he should have been. He’d only received some rudimentary training with the warband, and had only been a neophyte scout for a few years before that even, but some part of his brain simply knew what to do. Vergerus easily kept pace with Xader’s squad, taking up the rear to guard against those foolish enough to try and ambush them from behind. His internal clock told him they’d made planet-fall only twenty-two minutes ago, but already his chainsword and entire lower arm were coated in drying gore.

They encountered a fleeing squad of PDF troopers in a narrow alley. Vergerus was unable to get close enough to attack them himself, but couldn’t help feeling impressed by how efficiently Xader butchered them with his powered claw. Pieces of the bodies squished under their boots as they moved on, and it was following this that they encountered their first real resistance - a PDF barricade with a mounted heavy bolter. They lost the second Berzerker to the weapon as the traitor marine was suddenly riddled with messy holes. This offered Vergerus a better choice in weapons, however; clamping the chainaxe to his belt, he gripped the tarnished bolt pistol in his left hand and with a single well-placed shot took the head clean from the shoulders of the gunner. He’d always been a natural marksman, which he would later realize was an absolute waste on a Khorne Berzerker.

The seven of them kicked their way through the piled sandbags, ensuring no soldier would be able to cower behind them to hide. Swinging his chainsword, Vergerus disemboweled two of them through their military tunics, spilling looping entrails and a wash of dark blood across the rockcrete of the street. On the backswing he decapitated a third, feeling the slight grind of the plasteel blades chewing through vertebrae. Pushing off the ground with one foot, he crashed headlong into his next target, crushing the victim to death under the bulk of his armour and sawing a fifth soldier in two from the ground. Leaping back to his feet, he gunned down a fleeing trooper with his bolt pistol and followed the Berzerkers further up the street from the intersection once they’d finished off the last troopers at the barricade.

The sound of a roaring engine overhead caused him to look up and see a battered Thunderhawk belonging to the warband swooping down to hover briefly about four metres from a rooftop. A squad of havocs jumped out of it, setting up with their weapons while the gunship zipped off to the horizon.

Two rounds from missile launchers and a blast from a plasma cannon smacked against the side of a nearby building, sending rockcrete chunks, plasteel rebar and pieces of human bodies raining down on Vergerus and the squad. A PDF trooper fell screaming from the crumbling structure, impacting the street and falling silent. A third missile brought the building down completely, throwing a smothering cloud of dust into the air that choked their already restricted field of view.

For some reason, Xader paused his advance and motioned for them to mimic him. Vergerus heard the aspiring champion’s vox giving faint clicks, indicating that he was receiving orders from someone. After a moment he addressed them through the grille slit in his helmet: “ _Lord Kserdiek ambobs, rom am raionshi aris dats’uli. Ch’ven unda paemanze Thunderhawk sami ik’nas mde momarageba._ ”

The Berzerkers all grunted disagreeably, but Vergerus didn’t understand why until they boarded a Thunderhawk at the next junction. His internal clock told him he’d been fighting for a mere forty-five minutes, and he hadn’t expected Khorne Berzerkers to be so easily collared.

“What’s going on?” he asked, turning to Xader as he mag-locked himself into place.

“Learn our language,” the aspiring champion grunted dismissively, not answering his query.

Frustrated, Vergerus’ thick black eyebrows drew together and he couldn’t rid himself of his frown until they’d arrived safely back on the battle-barge. On the embarkation deck, Thunderhawks were being packed with as many Chaos marines as they could hold, largely havocs and heavy weapons but also the odd squad of Plague Marines. As both types of warriors tended to be immobile, Vergerus guessed they were being deployed to hold specific city sectors. Only the Khorne Berzerkers were returning to the _Flames of Damnation._

Xader stepped past him and began speaking in a dialect that wasn’t Khornate: “ _Oluwa Kserdiek, a ti pada. Gr'un ati Shev'ok ti won pa, sugbon mi pilẹ ti ṣe oyimbo daradara. Ohun ti o wa ibere re_?”

Vergerus started at the Chaos Lord’s name and quickly turned to stand at attention for his leader. Predictably, though, Kserdiek paid him no mind.

“ _Kó rirọpo agbari ati ran awọn lẹẹkansi, sugbon akọkọ ya awon ohun ija lati rẹ. O ti wa ni ko ba gba laaye wọn sibẹsibẹ_ ,” the Chaos Lord rumbled, jerking his head slightly at the initiate. Vergerus immediately tensed. “ _Ati awọn ti o wipe, rẹ išẹ ni ija ogun wà itelorun_?”

“ _Bẹẹni, oluwa mi._ ”

“ _Gan daradara. Wa ni lọ._ ”

Xader gave a short bow to Kserdiek, then motioned for Vergerus to walk with him and turned to leave the embarkation deck.

“Well, your fighting skills aren’t _awful,_ ” Xader ceded, glancing at Vergerus from the corner of his eye. “But your linguistic knowledge needs work. You need to learn Kharneth’s Dark Tongue at the very least.”

“Yes, sir,” Vergerus answered. “I feel I don’t have enough exposure.”

“That’s entirely your own fault,” the aspiring champion pointed out bluntly. “I’m certain you don’t spend all your time in my subdivision. You may even believe you have friends in some of the other recruits. But make no mistake, 8-15. You have no allies outside this cult. And even most of us want to kill you.”

They reached the lift, but instead of entering it himself Xader simply paused and reached out expectantly. Vergerus ceded his borrowed weapons and they parted without another word. Stepping onto the lift, he rode down to the initiate barracks and shed his armour at once beside his bunk. Stowing it in one of the battered wall lockers and not caring that he would need to clean and repair it later, he tossed his body sleeve onto the sweat-stained mattress and just stood naked for a second to let the chilled air kiss his damp skin. Vergerus shook his head at himself and slipped on a pair of torn grey fatigue pants and combat boots before turning to stalk across the chamber. Finding the least cracked mirror, he was surprised to see a lasgun burn across the side of his head. In the heat of battle he hadn’t even noticed the wound, but it was already almost healed thanks to his enhanced anatomy. He scratched the dried blood from his skin and realized that most of it hadn’t even been his to begin with, but his victims’.

_Did corruption always feel like this?_

The thought leapt unbidden to his mind. It had been so natural to kill those soldiers, to steal his dead comrades’ weapons without sparing them a thought. He’d hardly realized he’d been doing it at the time, even. He’d barely been trained with chain weapons as a scout marine, but he’d wielded the borrowed sword with near expert skill. Vergerus began to feel like it hadn’t been him fighting down on the planet at all, but was merely a dream, or a motion pict that he’d seen.

_Except that he could still feel the grip of the revving chainsword inside his right palm._


	4. Chapter 4

The walls had kept the PDF troopers from fleeing the city, at least.

Sergeant Tokarev knew the fortress walls wouldn’t have given them much help anyway, and hadn’t had high expectations for them. But now they were simply a collection point for demoralized soldiers who needed Chaplain Radchenko to slap sense into them and send them back to hold barricades in the street junctions. Really, though, assuming they didn’t come running back again, they were being sent to their deaths.

District 3 hadn’t been attacked yet, but Tokarev had heard multiple reports over the vox that the Chaos Marines were digging into the parts they’d already taken with havocs, Plague Marines, and Emperor knew what else. Inexplicably, the Khorne Berzerkers appeared to have vanished altogether, but certainly that didn’t seem to be cause for celebration. Admittedly, sending warriors of the Blood God down to smash the initial defense as cover to set up fortifications hadn’t been a bad tactic on the part of the Chaos Lord - the loyalist forces were growing more and more disoriented. As far as Tokarev knew, 5th squad had been completely wiped out of district 6 and 9th squad was barely clinging to each other in district 1 near the north gate.

“Brother sergeants,” Captain Lukov announced over the joined vox channel, “grave news. A minor warp rift has delayed 5th Company. We’re on our own until the end of the week when 10th Company arrives.”

“Brother captain, how is enemy movement progressing?” Sergeant Dmitry Vetsyenchuk from 7th squad asked after a moment of silence. Tokarev knew Vetsyenchuk’s squad was the only one besides his which hadn’t encountered Chaos forces yet.

“It seems to have slowed considerably, staying mostly within districts 1, 2, 5, 6 and 8,” Lukov replied. “Districts 4 and 7 are currently being disputed, but only because the PDF forces were concentrated mostly in those two districts. As far as we can tell, they’re losing, but I’ve heard from some of the other PDF officers that more Berzerkers are making planetfall in other key strategic areas. Because of this, no reinforcements will be able to arrive from other areas. The bulk of the Chaos incursion seems to remain here in Uchastok Kultury, which means we’re forced to remain and fight in the city. Brothers, we must fight our very hardest and show them our very best. We’re outnumbered by these traitors, but we are still the Adeptus Astartes. For the Emperor, brothers.”

The phrase was echoed by the sergeants and then the channel went silent. Tokarev closed the link inside his helmet before turning to his squad; Lukashuk was drilling the PDF and carefully organizing them to ensure the fewest holes in their defense of district 3, but the other eight battle brothers were spread across the large courtyard in their designated positions running weapon checks.

“‘...and though I may walk through the valley of the shadow of the warp, I shall fear no Chaos, for thy bolter and thy chainsword give comfort to me…’” Tokarev whispered to himself inside his helm. “Praise be to the Emperor, Master of Mankind and mightiest of men. May I ever strike down His foes, to kill the mutant, to burn the heretic, to purge the unclean. And may ever His guiding hand grant me the wisdom and strength in battle that I might become one of His immortal Angels of Death. Yea, mine own name might not be remembered, but ever shall I be known as His Divine Punishment, that all shall fear the wrath of the righteous…”

Tokarev knew his warriors were also praying, either to the Emperor or to the machine-spirits in their wargear. He didn’t doubt their abilities or their piousness because he’d picked each one of them for his squad each time a slot became available. But he also knew they had a weak link in Vsevolodsky, who had still been a scout marine four months ago. He needed to keep an eye on the young battle brother and attend his spiritual needs. Slipping his battle helm from his head, he paced over to where the fledgeling warrior was checking his bolter magazines.

“Care to join me in a prayer, brother?”

“Of course, sergeant,” Vsevolodsky nodded obediently, also removing his helmet.

The pair knelt on the rockcrete and slid silver totems of the Aquila from the storage slot in their belts, cradling the objects in both hands against their breastplates with their heads bowed. Tokarev closed his eyes.

“Emperor Most Holy, hear us, Your divine servants. Partake in sacred combat alongside Your Angels of Death this day. Pour out Your mighty strength to our bodies that You have crafted in Your image. Fill our most humble souls with Your wise intelligence. Guide our holy bolter rounds to strike true against Your vile foes, drive our blessed chainswords to bring about their swift end. Please also watch over our newest brother, guide his hands and bolster his faith, that he may serve alongside us for many years to come. Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” Vsevolodsky whispered in echo.

They rose from the ground and replaced their totems. Tokarev could tell Vsevolodsky was feeling more at ease now, knowing the Emperor was with them this battle. Interestingly, though, he could feel himself starting to prickle with distrust for his surroundings. Something wasn’t right, all the muscles in his body were tensing. He felt as though he was being watched. Before slipping his battle helm back over his head, he cast a cursory glance around the courtyard. His surgically enhanced vision made it no issue for him to see perfectly well during the night as though it were noon, but still detected nothing.

Tokarev hadn’t been a sergeant for nine decades by ignoring his gut, though. Something was off, out of place, and he could feel it. He wasn’t psychic by any means, but every Doom Falcon officer had gotten their position in part because their instincts were honed to a fine point. His were no exception. On edge, now, he toggled between thermal, infrared and high contrast of his helm’s HUD, scanning the courtyard carefully.

He almost didn’t catch the slight ripple in the shadow of a building, and saw the possessed Chaos Space Marine a split instant before he was bowled to the ground in a frenzy of horns and tendrils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is so short. Been dealing with crap and struggling with writer's block. :(


	5. Chapter 5

Vergerus paced with stiff legs down the corridor, listening to the rhythmic clunk of his battered combat boots against the metal grate. The other initiates were all in the barracks, either in a state of half-sleep or quietly tending their wargear and playing card games with each other. But he couldn’t sleep and certainly didn’t fancy the idea of lying awake and staring at the ceiling until tomorrow morning’s training. His mind refused to rest, still stuck on the inane craving he’d felt during combat, and so he walked the corridors in a loop as his thoughts also ran in circles.

He knew he didn’t want to continue down that path, becoming a mindless butcher like most Berzerkers or a slavering idiot like his brother Grozm. Even if he couldn’t stop the process completely, he would still take being able to hold it at arm’s length for as long as he could. Unfortunately, he also knew there was but a single means to do so, and as if he’d been summoned Luskar appeared at Vergerus’ side in a royal purple robe that smelled of incense.

“I heard the Khornate initiates saw combat today,” Luskar offered conversationally.

“Yes,” Vergerus grunted flatly.

“And how does the blood of Imperials taste?”

Vergerus hissed between his teeth. How could this manipulative snake be his only choice? “Unless you’ve arrived to give your answer to my query yesterday, do us both a favour and fuck off,” he growled, hands balled into tight fists.

“Very well,” Luskar replied smoothly, his voice betraying nothing. “You’re very attractive and well-bred, which are desirable qualities in a companion. You’re also intelligent and have the makings of a competent warrior. Someday, you’ll most likely become a Champion, and I would at least hope to gain your friendship. If not more than that.”

Vergerus stopped in his tracks and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d more or less figured on this being the reason, but hearing it explained out loud and so blatantly spoken was almost disheartening somehow. Lowering his arm, he saw that Luskar had predictably stopped as well and was studying him. The Slaaneshi initiate’s pale silver eyes were calm, but interested, and for the first time Vergerus saw truthfulness in them. His own dark brown eyes narrowed.

“And what if I kill you now?” He still couldn’t bring himself to fully accept this option yet. “Suppose I reject your foolish offer. And I’d like to point out this would be at much greater risk to you than me.”

“You won’t,” the other Chaos marine smiled. “I already know you well enough that I’m unmoved by your empty threats.”

Vergerus just stared in silence for a long moment until he was hit by a sudden, unexpected wave of despair. In a weak moment, he crumpled to his knees with his eyes closed and his fingertips digging into his thick black hair. For the first time in his short life, he felt utterly broken and psychologically crushed.

“I don’t _want this_!” he found himself screaming, hearing the echoes of his voice bounce from the walls around him. “Fuck, I don’t want this! I should have been killed… my brothers were all killed… Proteus… Aleron… fuck…”

The words wouldn’t find him and he fell silent, his jaw clenched and his body leant forward so that his forehead rested on the deck. As he slowly let his breath escape his lungs, he felt Luskar’s strong hands slipping around his arms, pulling him back upright. Then they slid to the sides of his head, raising his face so that their noses were barely a centimetre apart. As their eyes met, Vergerus braced himself, but Luskar was completely still and clearly not pushing his luck. But even so, he hadn’t been expecting this. From what he knew about devotees of Slaanesh, he’d thought Luskar might try to force things, but the fact that he seemed to be genuinely patient was surprising and rather impressive.

“Be still,” Luskar whispered, his breath soft on Vergerus’ face. “I’ll help you. You just have to let me.”

His mind clouded with desperation and a great sense of unfairness, Vergerus finally gave in and leaned his head into the meat of Luskar’s chest. He felt the hands moving again, gently smoothing down his regulation-short hair. It was an odd, but somehow comforting sensation. Even so he pulled away after a few moments and got to his feet.

“We should eat,” the Slaaneshi marine offered, also rising to stand. “And then you can know me a bit better, to put your mind at rest.”

Reluctantly, Vergerus nodded, and then slowly followed Luskar up the corridor to the lift. “I don’t know how to feel about this,” he confessed as they stepped onto it and the grate closed behind them.

“That’s alright,” Luskar answered, his expression unexpectedly sympathetic. “All things in time. It is a growing experience, after all. To pair yourself with another.”

“I didn’t explicitly agree to that,” Vergerus grumbled nervously.

“I know.” The other Chaos marine nodded patiently. “But, I’ve only been honest with you. That is the desired outcome for me.”

They were silent after that while they walked. Even though he’d only been on this deck once before, Vergerus was already starting to feel out of place. The few Noise Marines and slaves who were still moving throughout the deck at this hour were nicely dressed in their robes while he was stomping around in tattered grey fatigues and old boots made of cracked leather. He could tell Luskar noticed his discomfort, but thankfully the other initiate said nothing on the subject.

“Slave,” Luskar called out, “set two places with a variety of food and alcohol.” He turned to Vergerus: “Do you have any particular tastes?”

“I’ve been drinking blood for the last few weeks,” he answered sourly.

Luskar chuckled briefly, but was quiet again after that. The two young Chaos marines watched the slave assemble the dishes and cutlery in a tidy arrangement on the circular table before disappearing for several minutes. Luskar motioned for him to sit down and they both took places opposite each other. Vergerus just stared blankly down at the impeccably white plate before him, not knowing what to say or if he should even speak at all. Eventually it was the other initiate who broke the stillness.

“Your anxiety is normal,” the future Noise Marine began, his tone gentle. “After all, I didn’t expect you’ve experienced anything like this before. If there’s anything that can help you feel more at ease, you need only ask.”

“I want… greens,” Vergerus decided, surprising even himself with this blunt statement. “I haven’t eaten anything but blood organs since I’ve arrived here.”

“Don’t worry, the slave will bring quite a wide assortment of foods. Our minions cultivate fresh plants and raise livestock in the rear of the deck. We even keep a small pool of spirit fish, but those are for important events.”

“My cult kills and eats the slaves they don’t like,” Vergerus muttered in response. “But not the whole body, only the blood organs and arteries. The rest is simply tossed away and usually eaten by other slaves or rats.”

“I’ve heard this,” Luskar nodded. “And that you just eat with your fingers straight off the tables.”

“On occasion I’ve seen a rusted tray,” Vergerus countered. “And at least the blood is drained into mugs first for ease of consumption.”

“We’re taught from a young age to eat tidily from our plates with the correct utensils. Meal etiquette is important in our cult. How did you eat growing up?”

“Well… at a table with my parents and brothers. First we prayed to a shrine for the Emperor and then one for Guilliman. Then we’d eat a humble meal that was mostly protein for body strength, unless it was a holiday. On holidays my extended family would come visit us and we’d have grand meals.”

“That must have been nice,” Luskar commented, and it took Vergerus a moment to realize he was being sincere. “I don’t always know who exactly I’m related to in the warband. Not all of my potential half-siblings have made themselves known to me, and no real records are kept of slaves.”

“I thought there’s more of a community in this cult than in mine.” Vergerus was surprised. “Or at least cliques of some kind.”

“There’s an intricate pecking order. Andrios somehow keeps it memorized, but all I know is that I’m fourth from the very bottom. The other three are candidates.”

“You’re lower than the other initiates?”

“I’m being shunned,” Luskar admitted quietly, “because they know I have interests in someone who is supposed to be my rival.”

Before Vergerus could respond, the slave returned pushing a cart and began setting out a variety of meats, vegetables and soups before them, as well as several types of bread. Once the slave had left again Vergerus clumsily spooned himself a thick soup that had chunks of red meat in it and then heaped his plate with steaming vegetables that had the scent of pleasant spices. Dunking a thick piece of some sort of grain bread into the rich broth, he ate the entire slice in one large bite while Luskar was still daintily arranging his own meal and pouring them both goblets of a golden liquor.

“Tell me,” Luskar queried, “what’s it like to live on a planet instead of a ship?”

“Well…” He paused for a moment, frowning. “Vast. You look out from your hab and see the mountain ranges off on the horizons, knowing the Ultramarines’ holy fortress is secluded there. Watching the sun rise through the mist on autumn mornings was wonderful, even though I usually saw it through the window of the scholam. I was never much of an academic, of course. It was no major loss to the intellectuals of Macragge when I was recruited by the Chapter.”

Luskar smiled as he swallowed whatever he’d been chewing: “Imagining you as a child conjures the image of a smaller version of your current form, like a target dummy.”

“My face was a bit fatter,” Vergerus admitted, ceding a smirk. “But I’ve always been thick through the shoulders and chest. My brothers were always a bit thinner, like my mother.”

“They discovered an undeveloped twin inside my lung when I was very young. It was surgically removed without painkillers and afterwards the incision site became infected. When I survived, they deemed me strong enough to become a candidate once I was old enough. After that I was no longer considered a slave.”

“Is that a frequent occurrence in your cult?”

“No. But my gene-stock isn’t purely human, so I was stronger than the other children my age to begin with.”

Vergerus drank the remains of his soup in a long slurp and began scooping up the vegetables. They were perfectly cooked with just the right mix of herbs and spices, and in short order he’d emptied his plate and piled a second helping onto it.

“Your cult sounds inbred.”

“It’s not. The majority of the time, when a marine rapes a slave, the amount of physical trauma the human suffers is fatal. My mother… it happened to her twice. The first time, I was born after. The second time it killed her. They made me watch. My cult is the only one that occasionally breeds recruits this way and… I always wondered how it is to grow up in the others. Where the marines ignore their slaves.”

“Have you ever perpetrated such an act?” Vergerus couldn’t stop himself from asking. The curiosity was too much.

“No.” Luskar shook his head and rubbed his palm across his platinum blonde hair with overt discomfort. “I follow Slaanesh in all things, but I could never take pleasure from that brand of violence. Few know this about me. If my cult discovered this, I’d only be shunned further, or even forced out.”

Vergerus felt almost as uneasy about this topic as Luskar, so he struggled to change the subject.

“What did you do as a child? Does the cult formally school its slaves, or is it considered a wasted effort?”

“Growing up in a Chaos cult is all the schooling I needed. You simply learn daemonic summoning rituals and basic sorcery as part of your daily life. I didn’t learn to read until I became a candidate, though. It’s not important for slaves.”

Vergerus nodded in understanding before knocking back his entire goblet of alcohol. Luskar, of course, had been taking dignified sips of his instead.

“I must ask,” the Slaaneshi Chaos marine began, one pale eyebrow raised, “how this measured against your expectations.”

Vergerus shrugged his broad shoulders. “It reminds me of holiday feasts on Macragge, but without all the extended relatives who barely know me pinching my face and telling me how tall I’ve gotten since they’ve last seen me.”

Luskar chuckled. “I’ll take that as a positive sign that I could at least convince you to dine with me again, then.”

“Potentially,” he decided.

“Excellent. I’m sure you’re growing uncomfortable by this point, so before I lead you off this deck just one more question. Do you have a first name I could call you by instead?”

“No,” Vergerus lied.

 

After Khorase’vod screamed them awake that morning, instead of their usual training sessions they were ordered to don their wargear and assemble on the embarkation deck. Vergerus hadn’t actually slept after his encounter with Luskar, but rather had sat on his bunk thinking for the remainder of the night. Not that it mattered; his post-human brain had no need for a regular sleep cycle.

“Today, you will be deployed alongside mixed havoc squads,” Khorase’vod announced through his helmet’s exterior vox. “If you survive this battle, you will earn the right to begin your heavy weapons training. Some of your sorry hides will be killed, and make no mistake, if you embarrass this warband in death I shall personally beseech the Dark Gods to torment your soul for eternity. Now, each of you will be temporarily issued the weapon of your cult. Should you lose your weapon during combat, a limb of my choice shall be removed from your body as punishment, and I’ll achieve this by ripping it out of the socket. You’re dismissed to see your cult’s Champion and be issued weapons. I expect you all back here in fifteen minutes.”

Vergerus was annoyed by this - the Khornates lived on three of the lowest decks of the ship, which meant that he would have to sprint there and back in order to meet the warband proxy’s deadline. Unfortunately there were over two dozen other initiates in the cult and they all shoved him to the end of the line, so after collecting a chainaxe with a rusted head and eight missing teeth he arrived back on the embarkation deck with barely a minute to spare. As the last one falling back into formation, he could sense that behind the faceplate Khorase’vod was glaring at him.

“I don’t particularly care which squad you fight with today, but each squad can only take two initiates. The havocs are already waiting in the drop-pods, so you simply need to embark. Dismissed.”

They broke up and began wandering throughout the rows of pods, looking inside for warriors they knew. Vergerus paced between the rows until he saw Grozm leaning out the hatch of one at the end, waving a hand and wearing a clueless grin of steel fangs. Snorting in amusement and feeling slightly less annoyed because of his good luck, he trotted over to the pod and didn’t hesitate to mag-lock himself into the grav harness beside his brother.

“YOU EVEN GOT AN AXE!” Grozm observed, still beaming widely.

“Yes,” Vergerus nodded. “But I’ll try not to rush off without you in any case. We can kill together and then I won’t have to worry about losing contact.”

“YOU CAN HAVE MY VOX BEAD!” the Khornate havoc decided, slipping off his helmet and unplugging the curled grey cord from the inside of his gorget.

“Just don’t lose your battle helm, now,” the initiate smirked as he accepted the bead and slipped the jack into his own armour.

Despite the fact that there were five Khornates, three Nurglites and one Tzeentchian warrior present, Luskar boldly took the last empty slot in the drop-pod and stowed his borrowed sonic blaster. He was the only Slaaneshi fighter in their mixed squad, but Vergerus knew he wouldn’t be fazed by this.

“Lord Khorase’vod, MS-12 is filled and secured,” the Tzeentchian havoc grunted into his gorget. His silver helm was in his hands and even though he was speaking in half-Dark Tongue and half-Gothic, Vergerus was finally beginning to understand the language. “Prepared for deployment.”

Before the Tzeentch havoc could slip his helmet onto his head, Luskar nudged him with an elbow and whispered something. The havoc just nodded and also passed over his vox bead, which made Vergerus wonder why they weren’t just issued helms to begin with. He glanced around the weapon slots at each Chaos marine’s side: four heavy bolters, two flamers, a meltagun and a lascannon in addition to his chainaxe and Luskar’s sonic blaster. Then he saw that the other four Khornates all had chain weapons hitched to their belts, despite the fact that they risked interfering with the life-saving harnesses by doing so.

“How did _we_ get the worst initiates?” one of the Khornate havocs Vergerus didn’t know was growling through his mouth grille. “A loyalist and a hedonist. I bet Kershig and Fre’gur got _real_ fighters.”

“PISS OFF, WYQ!” Grozm screamed. “THE LOYALIST IS MY BLOOD-BROTHER! I’LL TEAR OUT YOUR THROAT AND EAT IT!”

The havoc named Wyq just gave an irritated hiss in reply, but Vergerus wasn’t able to feel angry at the moment because he was too surprised that he was suddenly able to comprehend Khornate. How had he gained full comprehension of the cult’s language overnight?

“All Chaos marines were once loyalists, or are descended from loyalists,” a Nurgle havoc pointed out in a burbling voice. “Eventually every warrior shall understand and embrace the destructive nature of the Empyrean, even at the moment of death.”

“Shut up, you festering moron,” the Tzeentch havoc retorted, shaking his head with impatience showing despite his full battle plate. “Even destruction is in itself creation, the way the Changer of Ways intended. His works reveal themselves in all things if you only stop to look.”

“Then why is Kharneth the most powerful?” a third havoc questioned, raising a finger. “We are the most numerous, and no one can stop us.”

“WE ARE THE RED TIDE!” Grozm agreed, his voice enthusiastic. “BLADES AND CLAWS! WE MAIM! WE KILL! WE BURN! ALL SKULLS FALL AT THE BRASS THRONE OF THE BLOOD LORD!”

Vergerus and Luskar exchanged a glance, but said nothing, knowing they’d only be rebuked by the havocs. While Vergerus felt irritated as always, Luskar’s expression only conveyed boredom. For once, Vergerus envied the other initiate’s calm demeanor.

“Right,” the Tzeentchian havoc barked, silencing the escalating debate. Clearly he’d been nominated the temporary squad leader. “In five minutes we’ll hit ground. Wyq, Grozm, and Dvinh will take point. Korlai and I will stay on centre. Xaxor will take left flank, Chunn will take right flank. Firrum, you take rear with the two noobs. According to Burax, the only defense of the city we’re assailing will be weak PDF troops.”

Vergerus leaned over to the Nurglite warrior on his left: “What’s the squad leader’s name?”

“Rahan.”

“Speaking of which,” Rahan interjected, “what are your numbers, rookies?”

“8-15.”

“6-13.”

“Ah! 6-13, you’re part of Andrios’ bloodline,” Rahan exclaimed, sounding surprised. “I’m feeling better about this already, we’ve got a born marine with us.”

“Er, yes,” Luskar affirmed, and though his expression was blank Vergerus could see embarrassment in his silver eyes. “I’ve met at least three of my uncounted half-brothers.”

“Which ones?”

“Leprad, Sadun and Chrolos. I dine with them sometimes, but rarely see them. Leprad and Chrolos are full Noise Marines by now and Sadun became a havoc the year I was born.”

“I know I’m from a different cult, but I have respect for your Champion,” Rahan confessed. “His skill in battle is extraordinary and he’s a talented commander.”

“Yours isn’t too bad either,” the Slaaneshi initiate replied. “I heard he once killed ten Iron Warriors with only a thought.”

Vergerus rolled his eyes at this pointless exchange, but thankfully he didn’t have to listen to it after that because the pod finally impacted the ground. Without wasting an instant, the group of them scooped up their weapons and streamed out of the smoking drop-pod as soon as the hatches sprang open.

“Let’s do this!” Wyq bellowed, laughing maniacally and pulling back the slide on his heavy bolter. As he let off a volley of explosive shells, Dvinh sprayed two troopers with his flamer and the humans died screaming.

Vergerus cleaved the closest soldier in two, but was unable to score a second kill because the entire group of mortals had already been wiped out by the squad. Somehow, this made his skin itch with impatience beneath his wargear. Grunting to himself and forcing his thoughts to still, he shook gore from his chainaxe and followed his compatriots at a mild jog. They weren’t moving as fast as he’d like because the two Nurgle havocs who sported flamers made sure to ignite every building they passed, often flushing out humans who’d sought shelter inside. These were gunned down by the heavy bolters as they fled.

“MS-12, status update,” a voice Vergerus didn’t recognize crackled in his ear. For a moment he was surprised until he remembered that his brother had loaned him the vox bead.

“Uneventful transit and successful disembarkation. We are combat effective, sir.”

“Initial resistance?”

“Light,” Rahan answered. “So far only Class-IIIb threats encountered, no fortifications or armour.”

“Affirmative. The Black Coven has predicted that Class-IIIa threats and additional Class-I threats will arrive in the system by the end of the week, please advise if Class-IIIa threats or higher are encountered prior to the projected time.”

“Yes, sir. MS-12 out.”

As they advanced through the streets, Vergerus could tell that the other squads had arrived around the same time as they had because he could smell a growing level of ash in the air that indicated more and more buildings were catching fire, certainly too many for the pair of flamers in their squad to have caused.

“MS-12, this is MS-31, requesting support. Class-IIIb light armour has been encountered.”

“Location?”

“Sector 4NE.”

“Affirmative, MS-31. Specify armour type.”

“Chimera transports, six count.”

“We are en route, MS-31. Out.”

Rahan made a series of hand gestures and the squad changed direction. As they broke into a full run, Vergerus could see flames licking the evening sky not far from them. In short order the whole city would be engulfed in the conflagration, which would further weaken the already inadequate resistance put up by the PDF. Vergerus had never particularly cared for this tactic, as it could be unreliable and hard to control, but moreso because he preferred to do his killing in person. Still, he acknowledged that it had its place in situations like this where the enemy was barely a threat and it could free them up sooner in order to move on to other objectives.

After rounding a corner they encountered the group of Chimeras engaged with the other squad of Chaos marines, and Vergerus noticed their reason for needing backup - the only havoc from MS-31 who’d carried a missile launcher had been killed and his fellows were too preoccupied to retrieve it. Clamping his chainaxe to his body, Vergerus scooped it up, took a knee and easily targeted the nearest transport. It ruptured loudly as its engine overloaded and the promethium fuel cooked off. Only three soldiers crawled from the wreckage and they were instantly cut down.

Rahan’s lascannon speared a red beam into a second Chimera, cutting straight through the thinner side armour of the vehicle. Plasteel ran molten from it, and though the troopers inside were firing in all directions, they were panicked and none of them hit their intended targets.

As obnoxious as Vergerus found the Chimeras given that he’d only used a missile launcher once before, at least his brother seemed to be having a good time: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! BLOOOOOD!”

Realizing he’d run out of rockets, Vergerus tossed the weapon aside and sprang forward to where more soldiers were pouring from their crippled Chimera. Swinging his chainaxe, he decapitated one, eviscerated a second and dismembered a third with one motion. On the backswing he tore open a ribcage, moving towards his next victim and stepping on the bodies without a second thought. He felt the last Chimera explode somewhere nearby, but didn’t care; he was much too busy cutting the legs out from under a human who was trying to flee.

His blood pounded in his ears as he hacked several more soldiers to pieces, adrenaline coursing him and enhancing his already massive strength. He didn’t hear himself, or for that matter even realize, as he was screaming at them in the Khornate language: “Crush! Kill! Destroy! Break their backs! Split them open!”

In the corner of his eye he could see Grozm fighting to his left, chainaxe in hand and heavy bolter abandoned. Suddenly the troopers were all dead, and Vergerus abruptly came to his senses. His armour and face were slicked with blood, and for some reason he was carrying a severed head in his hand. Frowning, he tossed it aside, and as he turned to rejoin the squad his brother grinned at him and gave an approving thumbs-up with his free hand.

“HELP ME FIND MY HELM!”

“Sure,” Vergerus nodded, kicking several body parts aside and eventually discovering it beside the burning remains of one of the vehicles.

After handing it over to his brother, Vergerus tried to wipe blood in vain from his face with a gauntlet that was also covered in the sticky red fluid.

“IT’S FUN, YEAH?” Grozm yelled, still beaming. “I SEE WHY KHORNE CHOSE YOU!”

Vergerus just gave a noncommittal grunt in response and surveyed the scene - the street was practically painted with gore and pieces of dead soldiers were scattered in a large radius. Amongst the vehicle wreckage were small mounds of body parts and severed guts, while all around them the city was burning to the ground. Taking it all in, he wouldn’t realize until later that this was the first time he’d killed Imperials and not felt ashamed.


	6. Chapter 6

He needed to move.

The necrons were a handful of hours from breaching the surface, and he knew it wouldn’t take much for them to locate him if he stayed still. To further complicate things, he could feel the waves of vibrations in the aether pinging against his mind and telling him every development of the combat between the Apostles of Death and the Doom Falcons.

But he had no choice, so he unburied himself.

Yashtiri didn’t know how he could keep hold of the resurrection orb if he could strike a deal with the Chaos warband, but he was certain they knew he was in possession of the xenos technology. This assuming they wouldn’t simply kill him on sight.

It was night when he emerged back onto the surface, not that it mattered much. This would buy him limited cover from any humans, but certainly the loyalist Space Marines or Chaos forces would be able to track him without any effort. Carefully, he crept through the trees, taking care not to step on any objects that would crunch under his armoured boots and feeling his surroundings psychically at the same time.

Mercifully he didn’t encounter any resistance in the two and a half kilometre march, and was able to hide himself in the wreckage of a Chaos Thunderhawk. Slipping into the twisted cockpit, Yashtiri planted psychic wards all around the site that would alert him to any intruders and wrapped the crumpled metal around himself like a cocoon. It wouldn’t hide him from the necrons forever, and it didn’t feel as secure as when he’d buried himself, but it might protect him long enough to get into contact with the Apostles of Death. The downed transport was his only hope now.

 

The vox chatter was indecipherable.

Tokarev had tried toggling through separate channels, but almost all of them had gone silent. Most of 2nd Company had been destroyed by the unrelenting waves of Chaos Space Marines, whether it be from the initial bombardment of Khorne Berzerkers, the steady march of the Plague Marines or the lethal ambush tactics of Possessed Marines. He’d barely survived one such assailant, losing his plasma pistol in the process as well as two of his squad.

“Brother-sergeant,” Lukashuk whispered beside him, “what’s the ETA on our extraction?”

“Twelve minutes,” Tokarev muttered back through his mouth grille.

Lukashuk’s helmet had been destroyed and his left eye put out when a Possessed Marine with taloned feet had kicked him in the face, so he’d undoubtedly be fitted with an augmetic replacement once they’d reached safety.

“What do you think they’re doing with Pravik?”

“I don’t know, brother. If I had to guess, they could be harvesting his organs for transplantation into their own recruits.”

Tokarev turned his attention back to the common channel on his vox. Most of it was garbled screaming from PDF troopers begging for help or for death, though occasionally a Space Marine’s voice would poke through with an update on his position. Cycling through the channels that had been in use an hour ago, he discovered that one more had gone dead and a second had been hijacked by the Chaos Marines to hiss ugly words in some daemonic tongue.

“Brother-sergeant, I’m not sure how Chaos is managing this, but the street under my position is starting to crack open,” Ignatenko voxed him over the squad channel.

“That seems unusual even for Chaos,” Tokarev replied. He frowned. “Brother, were you present for the Chiren System campaign?”

“No, brother-sergeant, I was recruited following its resolution.”

“Very well.” Tokarev made a hand signal for Lukashuk to hold position and crept across the roof to where Ignatenko was crouching at the lip. Peering over it, Tokarev saw that, true to his compatriot’s words, the rockcrete paving was splitting into jagged fissures and pale green light was leaking out of the ground. This only confirmed his suspicions. “Golden Throne… Chaos picked a hell of a time to attack us. That’s a group of necrons breaking through to the surface.”

“Brother-sergeant, this is Thunderhawk 5. ETA one minute.”

“Understood,” he acknowledged before switching to the command channel. “Brother-captain, standby for emergency report. This is Sergeant Tokarev of 2nd Squad, we’ve discovered an emerging necron threat at the southeast edge of District 3, coordinates 37-91. Chaos concentrations in the surrounding area unknown, we are awaiting extraction by Thunderhawk 5 for resupply and rearming. Please respond.”

The line stayed silent after he stopped his transmission. The Thunderhawk was landing on the roof behind him, and Tokarev turned to see his squad climbing inside. He was the last in, and as he was mag-locking himself into the nearest empty slot Captain Lukov replied to his message.

“Brother-sergeant, when you’ve arrived back on the battle-barge please meet with the Chief Librarian for a briefing before your rearming. I’ll report the appearance of the necrons to the Chapter Master. What’s your squad’s current status?”

“We’ve been extracted by Thunderhawk 5 and are en route to the  _ Herald of Justice. _ Brother Panasevich has been killed in action and Brother Pravik has been abducted by the Chaos forces. Brother Lukashuk has suffered a minor injury and Brother Volchok has suffered a moderate injury.”

“Elaborate?”

“Brother Lukashuk has lost his left eye and suffered minor lacerations to the side of his head. Brother Volchok’s right arm was amputated below the elbow by a power sword. Both will receive suitable augmetic replacements.”

“What is your squad’s wargear damage assessment?”

“At our current status, we would only be combat effective at 72% efficiency.”

“Understood, brother. For the Emperor.”

Tokarev echoed his commanding officer before switching off the vox link. He felt as though his twin hearts were sinking into his guts; he’d never considered, even for an instant, that his homeworld would be host to a necron tomb. In many ways it was worse even than the invasion of the traitor Space Marines, because they could at least be decisively killed. The necrontyr could be nigh indestructible, and depending on the size of the tomb in question could be so difficult to flush out that destroying the planet entirely was the preferable option.

Standing silently in his slot as the Thunderhawk carried them to their battle-barge, Tokarev couldn’t escape his dismal thoughts. He knew that reinforcements would arrive within days, but with the combined peril of Chaos taint and the necrons’ unique brand of genocide, his homeworld could end up as asteroids and dust.


End file.
